by Deanna Roy
We sat in companionable silence for a bit, and I relaxed. I was lucky she had picked me up, as the storm blasted us for twenty more miles.
Hopefully my luck would hold out in California.
~*´`*~
Gram dropped me off at a truck stop on the Interstate. I’d learned in the past few months that these were the best places to pick up rides. Truckers didn’t mind companions. But she was right. If a ride didn’t turn up, I could always catch a bus into town.
I didn’t have enough money to spend on a hotel, even a bad one, but maybe I could get away with sleeping on the beach. That was certainly something that I’d never done. Nights could get tricky. Sometimes I rode 24-hour buses just to catch some z’s.
I got a cup of coffee at the counter and looked over the customers, seeing if there were any prospects. The drivers were sparse midafternoon. One gruff man with a beard to his chest stared at me with beady eyes. I nursed my coffee for another half hour, then decided maybe I’d take off down the highway.
The doors burst open and a raucous group of four guys tumbled in. The waitress behind the counter paused with her order pad. They didn’t take a booth or a table, but piled onto the stools to my right.
“You got some pie?” One of them, a skinny dude with purple sunglasses, slammed his hand on the counter. “I need some old-school pie.”
The waitress braced her elbow on the counter, making no move to serve them. “I think you need some old-school manners.”
The other guys chorused a “Whoooa” and laughed themselves silly. I suppressed a smirk.
“All right, ma’am,” Purple Sunglasses said. “May I please see your list of pies?”
“I got apple, chocolate, and lemon,” she said.
“I’ll take lemon, thank you,” he said, his face poker-straight, like a chastised schoolboy.
She nodded. “Some coffee with that?”
“No, ma’am.”
The other three gave her their selections. As soon as she moved past the doors to the back, they took up their loud conversation again.
“We’re gonna be late to the gig, man!” one said.
“Nah, no way,” the other said.
I couldn’t stop staring. They made me think of the Beatles in their ’70s phase, all long haired and scruffy, rail thin in polyester pants and colored vests.
Purple Sunglasses caught me looking. “You play guitar?” he asked, tapping his foot against my case.
“I reckon I do,” I said.
“A southerner!” another cried out. “Where you from?”
“Tennessee,” I answered, feeling wary now. I wasn’t interested in being the butt of their jokes.
“That’s cool,” Purple Sunglasses said. “What brings you to Sunny Cal?”
I shrugged. “Just playing gigs across the country.”
“What kind of music?” he asked.
“Probably both kinds,” one of the others said. “Country AND Western.”
I let the joke roll right off me. It wasn’t like I looked country. I wore a Grateful Dead T-shirt and jeans with heavy black boots. It was the accent. I never could seem to lose it. “I mix it up,” I said.
“We’re the Sonic Kings,” he said, gesturing to his friends. “Blues and funk.”
“You’re playing tonight, I take it?” I asked.
“Yeah, a party for some movie dude.”
The waitress brought out the pieces of pie and set them in front of the band.
“Sounds like a sweet gig,” I said. “That in LA?”
Purple Shades shoveled pie in his gullet for a minute, then said, “Hollywood, USA.” He swallowed. “You need a lift or something?”
“I was headed that direction.”
“Right on,” he said. “You can hop in our van.” He turned to the others. “We got us a roadie.”
They followed with a round of “Cool” and “Righteous.”
Sweet. I was on my way to LA.
Chapter 3: Jenny
The evening was going according to plan. I soaked up the glory of walking a red carpet from Frankie’s limo to the Chinese Theatre. This movie wasn’t one of his, but he got invited to premieres all the time.
Reporters shouted questions as we posed in front of a backdrop plastered with the title of the movie we were about to see. An entire bank of photographers was held back by a red rope. Thousands of fans shouted and cheered behind a metal barricade.
God, this was the life. I swallowed hard over the lump in my throat, grief-stricken that it was ending.
“Why so sad, Pink Princess?” someone shouted.
Frankie glanced over at me, and I straightened my expression. It didn’t matter. The gossip sites would speculate over my somberness tomorrow after everything was done.
I smiled and waved.
The reporters called out questions about Prison Hunt, Frankie’s next film. A crew came forward and interviewed him. I stood behind him, smiling, then carefully stepped away at the right moment. I knew the drill. I wasn’t anybody special. Nobody wanted to know anything about some random girl the director brought along. I didn’t act or have any sort of career. Which was why Frankie chose me.
Regular Joes who had scored tickets to the premiere walked down the carpet, starstruck and shuffled along by ushers. Tomorrow I would be one of those people, able to gaze at the celebrities only from a distance.
Frankie milked his moment until one of the stars of the current film arrived and the press moved on. Frankie reached for my hand. “Let’s go in,” he said. “That was a good run.”
I nodded, aware of the popping of flashes as we walked the rest of the way into the theater. Once out of range of the photographers, we went through a security check and were escorted to our seats.
My throat tightened again as I surveyed the room. Despite arriving fairly late, it would be an hour or more until the film began. We still had to watch the interviews taking place outside, now showing onscreen. Then the traditional introduction of the cast and speeches about everyone’s brilliance and talent.
Frankie was animated, anxious, I knew, for his own premiere next month. I hadn’t been around during its filming, as that was concluded over a year ago. I would narrowly miss the shooting schedule of his next movie too.
Rotten luck on that. Not that I could afford to miss that much class. I did have to graduate. Still, I craved the chance to be on a movie set, brought in by the director. That was access.
I kept a natural, mildly pleased expression on my face as we were greeted by other industry people arriving at the theater. I desperately wanted to take out my cell phone and get one last selfie among the glitterati, but I knew that was out of line for my position and didn’t dare embarrass Frankie, even now.
As the lights finally dimmed, I paid little attention to the film and thought ahead to the after-party. Frankie sat close, his arm draped around me. I wondered who he had fallen in love with. He wasn’t for me, really, twice my age and not exactly my type. But he was kind, and funny, and I would miss him.
Now I was getting all blue. I couldn’t be photographed that way.
Surely there would be someone at the party who would find me interesting. Maybe not as much as Frankie, but I could live with less.
I just had to find him.
Chapter 4: Chance
The boys from the Sonic Kings were raucous and animated in the two hours it took to get to the gig. Purple Sunglasses, whose real name was Paul, navigated their VW van through an impressive neighborhood of mansions flanked with palm trees.
“You wanna hang with us for the night, Tennessee?” Paul asked. “Free food and booze if you help with setup.”
I didn’t have any better offers, and who knows, maybe fate would shine on me at the party and I’d figure out my next move.
“Sounds good,” I said.
We turned on to a long tree-lined street. I’d seen a lot of things in my expedition across the country, but never anything like this. Enormous mechanized gates stood like sentries
over the winding road. You caught little more than glimpses of the homes themselves, as leafed-out bushes blocked the view.
We pulled up to a driveway with its gates thrown wide. Dark had already descended, but the front lawns were brightly lit with floodlights aiming down from the trees.
One of the other band members whistled. “Whooee, look at these digs.”
The van coughed and chugged its way around a circle drive where a couple valets were setting up a stand.
“Curbside service,” Paul said. “Sweet life.”
“How’d you get this gig anyway?” I asked.
“Movie director dude is a friend of a friend. His big premiere downtown is tonight.”
A valet opened the side door uncertainly. “You with the caterer?” one asked.
“We’re the band!” Paul said with exuberance. “Where do we unload?”
The valet pointed to a side driveway that wound to the back.
“We’re in!” Paul said as we circled the house. “We’ve got a stage and all here.”
We pulled up next to a truck where two men were unloading an ice sculpture of a dinosaur. Must be related to the movie, I figured, unable to stop grinning. I never expected the final destination of my trip to be as good as this.
We all clambered to the back and Paul passed me a cymbal box. The grounds outside the van were unreal, as big as a park, immaculate and green. Little white balls of light were strung all over the place, crisscrossing tables with red tablecloths.
“Totally prime,” Paul said, surveying the yard. “These people have money to burn.”
The stage was just past the pool, which was full of floating flowers. All around, perfectly clipped hedges lined meandering sidewalks.
I could get used to this.
We set the first load on the edge of the stage, and Paul took off to find somebody in charge to ask about power. I headed back to the van for more gear, puffed up and pleased to be here. I didn’t care if I was schlepping.
After a few loads from the van to the stage, we had all the gear laid out. Paul sat on the stage, plugging in amps and mikes. The drummer assembled his set.
They didn’t seem to need me, so I wandered the scene, dodging caterers with metal bins of food and decorators setting out centerpieces.
Swanky. The paths meandered off away from the lit-up area, still lined with hedges. There was only an occasional light on the walkway this far from the party. I looked up and could actually see the stars. We weren’t near the ocean as far as I could tell, but I’d explore that tomorrow. See what LA had to offer, spend a few days, or maybe a week.
Beyond that, I had no idea.
Behind me, I could hear the thump thump thump of a drum, then the diddling of a bass guitar. They must be doing the sound check. I hustled back to the lights and energy of the pre-party setup, eagerness thrumming through my body.
Paul played lead guitar and did vocals. They launched into “Super Fly,” and Paul wasn’t bad. His voice had a heaviness to it, out of sync with his skinny body in the gold vest and purple shades.
They stopped the song midway and the bass guitarist adjusted his monitor.
Paul looked down at me. “What you got in your repertoire, country boy? Any blues?”
“Hell, yeah,” I said. I hopped onstage. “This probably isn’t a job for my Seagull, though.” My acoustic guitar was back in the van.
Paul handed me his electric one. “Be my guest.”
I turned to the others. “I’m sure you know ‘Mustang Sally.’”
“Right on,” the drummer said, and instantly set a simple beat with the bass and the hi-hat.
I turned to the mike. The tables spread far and wide, encircling the flower-laden pool. It didn’t matter that they were empty.
The Fender was light, chilled from the night air. I pressed the steel wire against the fret and banged out the opening notes alongside the drummer, and sang like every table was full.
“Mustang Sally… Mmm hmmmm. Mustang Sally.”
The bass guitarist let out a whoop and joined in. Paul danced alongside on the stage.
The clinking of dishes subsided as our sound took over the world around us. Waiters paused, trays of silverware upheld. The girls arranging greenery around the ice dinosaur turned to watch.
I made eye contact with each and every one, belting out the blues like my world began and ended with a girl named Sally to ride.
Paul snagged a mike and filled out the chorus. The bassist leaned in and added edge to the vocals.
We were hot. We rode out the song on a magic carpet, gliding through the night on a sound wave.
I signaled to bring the chorus around once more, and we nailed the finish. The sparse collection of workers whooped and cheered.
“Tennessee, you got it goin’ ON,” Paul said. “You up for doing a tune or two tonight?”
“Hell, yeah,” I said.
This day just kept getting better and better.
Chapter 5: Jenny
The limo pulled up to a beautiful colonial-style mansion with white pillars and a circle drive. I wanted to admire it, soak in my last bit of life in the fast lane¸ but my nerves were jangling too hard to pay attention.
“It’s been fun,” I managed to say.
Frankie looked up from his cell phone. He wasn’t the best-looking guy I’d dated, more Danny DeVito than Brad Pitt, but he was kind and generous and easygoing.
“It has indeed,” he said.
I choked out a laugh. “I think you’ve been my longest relationship.”
He smiled, his teeth flashing in the dark. “I appreciate you changing your lifestyle for me all these months. I know it wasn’t easy. Now you can go after boys to your heart’s content.”
“Probably not my heart that’s most interested right now.”
His grin grew wider. “I know that was tough too.” He leaned forward and pressed a light kiss to my cheek. “I look forward to looking at the photos of your next conquest. Make it a real good one. Somebody who’ll get you in all the tabloids.”
“Did you have someone in mind for tonight?”
Frankie tucked his phone in his pocket. “It’s up to you. Someone who will make the gossip sites would be best. Alec will appreciate the recognition that I’m available before he and I go public. He doesn’t want to be a home wrecker in the press.”
I didn’t flinch for a second that Frankie’s new love was a boy. I knew Frankie was bi when I met him.
“So you want me to appear to be cheating on you?” I asked, my face hot. “I don’t want you to look like a chump.”
He squeezed my hand. “It’s okay. I’m ready to be seen with Alec. I won’t be single long.”
“I just…like you. I can’t stand the way they trump things up for click bait.”
Frankie clasped his other hand over mine. “Don’t worry about me. When we get there, I need to meet with some industry people, then I’ll introduce you to a few who might be able to help you come summer. Feel free to take my limo home when you like. I’ll be here all night and won’t need it.”
“Okay.” My eyes pricked a little. “I’m going to miss you.”
The back door of the limo opened. “We’ve had a good time,” he said. “But I think you’re really going to miss my credit card.”
Well, there was that.
Frankie started to move, but I stopped him with my hand on his arm. “Frankie?”
He paused. “What is it, princess?”
“When we started this arrangement, you said you just wanted someone who looked the part to attend things with you so you could date discreetly.”
“That’s right,” he said.
“Why did you pick me?”
His gentle hand squeezed mine. “You’re genuine,” he said. “You think you’re a plaything, a pretty bauble to flash in front of people, but inside, you’re the real deal.”
I let go of him. I hadn’t expected him to say anything like that.
We scooted around to the back o
f the car and ducked outside. “Jenny will buzz you when she needs you,” he said to Brandon, his driver.
Brandon nodded and closed the door.
The air was cool and still, a near-perfect early spring night. The circle and lawns were strewn with cars of people who hadn’t bothered with the valet. The mansion towered over us like a plantation house. I never got used to the places some of these Hollywood people called home.
Frankie held my hand as we headed up the stone steps. I struggled with the dress since it didn’t let my knees go more than a few inches apart. I couldn’t afford to blow out a seam at this late hour. I had people to impress.
And a man to seduce in front of the paparazzi.
A doorman opened the front entrance, and we passed into the opulent house. The muffled sound of the band playing outside penetrated the indoors.
Ahead were two curving staircases. Between them was a hall to another part of the house. To the right, two tall white doors were thrown open to reveal what could only be called a parlor, full of elegant sofas and paintings. A few men lounged there, smoking cigars. One of them waved at Frankie and gestured him over.
“You go on back and get a drink,” he said to me. “Look things over. I’ll be around.”
“Of course,” I said, my heart skittering. Did he really expect me to find someone to cheat on him with? What if no one was interested in lowly me?
I smoothed my dreadlocks and continued through the house between the stairs. Apparently I made a wrong turn, because I wound up in the industrial-sized kitchen packed with catering staff.
“You need help finding the party?” a handsome man in a black vest asked. His blond hair flopped boyishly over his forehead. College student, I’d guess. Might as well work these rusty flirting skills on him.
“Can you show me the way?” I asked. If the photographers caught me with this one, I could already see the headline: Pink-maned beauty ditches film mogul for busboy.
Actually, they probably wouldn’t even mention me. It would be all about Frankie, what his heartache might do for the film that was about to come out. Frankie claimed they weren’t interested in him, but I knew better. Anything movie related was big.
